


The Best He Can

by sinnerforhire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-03
Updated: 2010-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 00:27:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerforhire/pseuds/sinnerforhire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to "And Karma Laughed the Hardest."  Why was Dean talking to elves in Syracuse?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_January 15, 1990  
10:36 pm_

 

Some days, John thinks, it's just not worth getting out of bed.

It’s a miserable night. There’s a foot of snow already on the ground, so the sleet and freezing rain that have been steadily falling for the last two hours are just serving to make the ground a frozen, slushy mess. Not what you want when you have to dig up not just one, but _three_ separate graves. It’s a family thing with these spirits, apparently. If they weren’t hurting people, John would almost feel bad for them.

All he wants is to get this damn job over with and go back to his boys.

 They’ve been in Erie for three weeks now. Three weeks of snow and slush and below-zero wind chills have taken their toll. All of them caught bronchitis shortly after arriving; John and Sam bounced back relatively quickly, but Dean’s still wheezing and has to use an inhaler, which he absolutely hates and will fight with all the strength he can muster.

Seems like all they’re doing is fighting. Sam’s mad that they’re not in school, since this was supposed to be a quick little side trip on the way to Vermont, where John’s got a werewolf pack and a part-time garage gig lined up. However, between being ill himself and having to take care of two sick boys, the current case isn’t going as smoothly as he’d planned. Dean’s pissed off about being stuck indoors with Sam all the time, but John suspects the real reason for his outbursts is lingering malaise and fatigue. John tries not to get into it with either one of them, but he just can’t help it sometimes. He just wasn’t blessed with the gift of patience.

It’s another hour before the last set of bones is salted and burned. He can’t feel his nose, ears, or extremities anymore and he fumbles the keys to the Impala a few times before he manages to unlock the door. He doesn’t even bother turning on the heat--he’ll be back to the motel before it warms up enough to be helpful.

When he gets back to the motel, he finds Dean sitting on the bed with his coat, hat and gloves on and Sam bundled up in all the bedcovers from both beds. It’s then that he realizes that the room is barely warmer than the parking lot outside. He frowns. “What’s going on?”

“The heat broke,” replies Dean, flipping a page in the comic book he’s reading. When John steps closer, he can see a slight bluish tint to Dean’s lips.

“Get packed up, we’re leaving,” John tells them, moving towards his own bag. Dean reluctantly climbs off the bed and starts gathering up the few clothing items that are laying around. “You too, Sammy. Help your brother.”

“But it’s freezing,” Sam replies, pulling the blankets tighter.

“It’s okay, I got it,” Dean mumbles. He walks to the table in the corner and clears off the crayons and construction paper and picture books scattered about.

John grabs his duffle and opens the door. “I’m gonna warm up the car. I’ll be right back.”

When he gets back to the room, Dean’s helping Sam with his winter coat, a hand-me-down that’s still a little too long in the sleeves. Dean sniffles loudly and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his own coat, which prompts an “ew, gross” from Sam.

“Shut up, you do it too,” snipes Dean, zipping up Sam’s coat and sneezing into the crook of his elbow.

John frowns. It sounds like Dean’s getting sick again. That’s just what they need. He hustles the boys out to the car and grabs the wool blanket out of the trunk. He wraps it tightly around Dean’s shoulders and sits him in the front seat. He angles the vents so that Dean will get the majority of the warm air. Dean says nothing, just sniffles and coughs lightly.

“Where are we going?” asks Sam from the backseat once they’re on the road.

“Vermont,” John answers.

 “Tonight?”

“No, not tonight.” John suppresses a chuckle. “It’ll take about a day to get there in this weather.”

Dean sneezes. “We’re driving straight through?”

“As long as the roads don’t freeze,” answers John.

“I don’t wanna sleep in the car,” says Sam. “It’s cold back here.”

“You can have the blanket,” Dean offers, shrugging it off, but John stops him.

“Leave it, Dean. You need it more.”

“I’m okay,” says Dean before being interrupted by two loud sneezes.

“No, you’re not,” John replies. “Try and get some rest. We’ve got enough gas for a couple more hours.”

Dean sighs, but it turns into a brief coughing fit. He slumps down in the seat and rests his head on the window. A few minutes later, he’s sound asleep.

John glances at Sam in the rearview mirror. “It’s past your bedtime too, you know.”

Sam sits up straighter. “I’m not sleepy.”

John bites back an exasperated sigh. “Fine, just be quiet. Don’t wake up your brother.”

“Okay,” Sam whispers. He goes back to staring at the snow-covered scenery. Only fifteen minutes pass before he’s out too.

John stops for gas two and a half hours later. When he returns to the car, Dean’s rubbing sleep out of his eyes and coughing. John opens the passenger door and puts a hand on Dean’s forehead. He’s not as warm as John was expecting and he has to wonder just how long Dean was exposed to the cold back at the motel. He pats Dean’s cheek and smiles a little. “Why don’t you lay down in the back?” Dean sniffles and nods tiredly. He curls up next to his still-slumbering brother and John covers both of them with the blanket.

It ain’t easy, John thinks, but it’s worth it.

*~*~*~*~*  
_January 16, 1990  
6:24 am_

By dawn they’re not even to Syracuse, as the roads through Buffalo were absolute shit. What should have been a four-hour drive has now lasted almost seven. You’d think a place that gets four feet of snow every winter would handle the plowing-and-salting thing better.

Dean coughs himself awake and sits up with a strangled groan. John takes a good look at him in the mirror. His eyes are glassy and ringed with deep shadows and he’s ghostly pale except for the bright red flush on both cheeks. His cough is deeper and more productive than last night and John can discern a slight wheeze in the breaths between. John frowns. “You don’t sound too good, kiddo.”

“‘M fine,” Dean rasps, his voice strained and husky.

“You don’t sound fine. I want the truth, Dean,” he says sternly. “How do you feel?”

Dean looks down at the floor. He fidgets with the zipper pull on his coat and lets a long moment pass. “Awful,” he answers in a tiny voice. He sneezes twice, then winces and presses a hand to his head. “My head hurts,” he moans.

John bites his lip and tries to swallow past the lump that’s suddenly grown in his throat. Dean needs a warm bed, lots of fluids, and more antibiotics. However, the last round of prescriptions pretty much wiped out his emergency reserves. He can secure a room for a day or two, but a clinic visit and meds are beyond what he can cover with his current resources. He’s got decisions to make. He takes a deep breath. “We’ll stop soon, okay?”

“‘Kay.” Dean shivers and pulls the blanket closer. John reaches over and turns the heat up.

Sam sits up and looks out the window. “Where are we?”

“New York,” John answers.

 “There’s even more snow here,” says Sam, clearly impressed. Dean coughs harshly and sneezes. Sam turns to him, eyes wide. “You sound bad. Are you sick again?”

Dean’s answer is a half-hearted shrug and a couple more coughs. The wheezing is more pronounced now and John finally remembers the inhaler. “Do you have your inhaler in your bag?”

“Dunno. Maybe.” Dean makes no move to retrieve it.

“Check your bag, Dean,” John orders.

Dean leans over to get his backpack out from under the front seat. When he sits back up, his face loses what little color it had and he swallows hard, obviously fighting the urge to be sick. John immediately pulls the car over and Dean shoves the door open and starts throwing up in the snow. John gets out and hurries around the back of the car to get to Dean. He rubs Dean’s back as Dean retches and gags and coughs up dark yellow mucus and little else. “It’s okay, buddy. You’re all right,” he murmurs softly. “Just get it all out. That’s good.” Dean sits up shakily and John supports him, not wanting him to tumble out of the car. He brushes Dean’s sweaty hair off his forehead and thumbs away the involuntary tears spilling down Dean’s cheeks. “Think you’re okay for a few more miles?”

“I guess.” Dean’s voice sounds like he’s been swallowing glass shards, which is probably about how it feels to him, poor kid. He slumps back against the seat and John tucks the blanket around him.

“Hang in there. We’ll be there soon.” He squeezes Dean’s shoulder and closes the back door.

Both boys are silent for the half hour it takes to reach the city, except for Dean’s sneezes and sniffles and coughs. Sam turns his share of the blanket over to Dean, who’s shivering so hard his teeth are chattering. Dean huddles in the corner where John can’t see him, but that doesn’t stop John from looking every five seconds.

Finally John spots a small but well-kept motel on the outskirts of the city and stops. He locks the boys in the car and pays for two nights, which maxes out the card he’s currently using. He parks the car outside room 14 and opens the back door to help Dean into the room. Dean’s so miserable that he doesn’t even put up a token protest, just grabs onto John’s coat and hangs on tight.

John strips Dean of his winter clothes and settles him in bed before going back out for the bags. Before he leaves, he grabs the tissue box out of the bathroom and sets it on the bed beside Dean. One corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up in a weak but genuine expression of gratitude.

Sam climbs up on the bed next to Dean. John glares at him. “Go sit in the chair. I don’t want you getting sick too.” Sam scowls at him but does as he’s told, flopping down in the chair and crossing his arms. John softens his expression and addresses him gently. “Sammy, you’re not being punished. You just need to stay away from Dean while he’s sick.”

Sam pouts. John forces down a sigh and leaves the room. He brings all their bags in and sets them down on the other bed. Sam pounces on his blue backpack, digging through it until he finds the crayons and drawing pad. “I’m gonna make a picture for you, Dean,” he announces.

Dean coughs. “Cool.”

John opens the first-aid kit and takes out the thermometer. Dean groans. “Sorry, kiddo, you know the drill. Open up.” Dean rolls his eyes but complies. Five seconds later, John has his answer: 101.4. _Could be worse_, he thinks. _Could, and probably will_.

He finds the cough syrup and Children’s Tylenol in the side pocket of his duffle and sets everything on the table between the two beds. Dean watches him with glassy, unfocused eyes. John goes to the bathroom and fills a glass with water. He gives the water to Dean and measures out a dose of cough syrup. Dean glares at it for a moment before swallowing it with difficulty and gulping down half the water. John smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “Good.” Dean sneezes and hands the dosage cup back. John gives him two tablets of Tylenol and takes the cup to the bathroom to wash it out.

“You need anything?” John asks upon returning. Dean sniffles and shakes his head. He’s overcome by a huge yawn, which turns into a drawn-out coughing fit. John grabs a pillow off the other bed and props Dean up so he can breathe more easily. The coughs finally taper off and Dean sinks into the pillows, clearly exhausted. John pulls the covers up to his chin. “Get some rest, now,” he murmurs. Dean’s eyes flutter closed and he drifts into slumber with a soft sigh.

*~*~*~*~*_  
January 16, 1990  
10:13 am_

Sam finishes coloring the last page in the Ninja Turtles coloring book. “I’m bored.”

“Me too,” says Dean, sneezing into a tissue.

Daddy makes an angry face. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“You could read to us,” says Sam. He slides off the chair and opens Dean’s backpack. The big heavy elf book is all the way down at the bottom. Dean got it in Mississippi for 50 cents at a yard sale. Dean put a piece of yellow paper to mark the place instead of turning down corners like he usually does with his school library books. “Dean’s reading this to me,” he tells Daddy proudly.

Daddy’s eyebrows go up when he picks up the book. “_The Lord of the Rings_? That’s a pretty grown-up book for the two of you,” he says.

“My teacher reads it to us at school,” says Dean. “And then I come home and read it for Sammy.” He coughs loudly and takes a drink of water.

Daddy opens the book to the piece of yellow paper. He sits down on the empty bed and pats the mattress next to him. “Come here, Sammy.”

Sam grins and crawls up next to Daddy. Daddy smiles and puts his arm around Sam. The book is open to a new chapter they haven’t started yet. Sam can tell because the words are bigger at the top of the page.

“Next day Frodo woke early, feeling refreshed and well. He walked along the terraces about the loud-flowing Bruinen and watched the pale, cool sun rise above the far mountains...”

The chapter is really long and it has a lot of names and big words. Sam gets the idea, though. Someone has to take the Ring to Mount Doom to destroy it, or the bad guys might get it and do evil things with it. At the end, Frodo volunteers to carry the Ring, but he doesn’t know the way.

Daddy closes the book on the piece of yellow paper. “One more chapter?” Dean asks. His voice is still all scratchy and it doesn’t sound like Dean at all.

Daddy frowns and gets up. “Sounds like it’s time for your medicine,” he says to Dean. He picks the thermometer up and hands it to Dean, then takes the empty glass away. Dean makes a face at the thermometer but does what he’s supposed to. Daddy comes back with more water and takes the thermometer out of Dean’s mouth when it beeps. “102.7,” he says.

“Is that bad?” Sam asks.

Daddy shakes his head. “Not too bad,” he says, but Sam’s not sure he’s telling the truth. He measures out a cup of the yucky cough medicine and hands it to Dean. Dean swallows it fast so he doesn’t have to taste it--at least, that’s what he always tells Sam. Daddy gets a bottle out of his duffle bag and shakes a big pill out of it. Sam’s kinda glad Dean has to take it and he doesn’t, ‘cause he’s pretty sure grown-ups’ pills don’t come in good flavors.

Daddy hands the pill to Dean. “You can’t chew this kind, you have to swallow it with water,” he explains. Dean looks like he doesn’t want it but he takes it anyway and swallows it with a big gulp of water. It makes Sam’s throat hurt just to think about it. Daddy goes back into the bathroom and comes out with a wet cloth that he puts on Dean’s forehead. Dean sighs and sort of smiles.

Daddy sits down beside Sam again and opens the elf book at the marker. He reads until they both hear Dean snoring. Daddy puts the yellow paper back in the book and closes it. “Are you stopping?” Sam asks him. He wants to hear the rest of the chapter.

“For now,” Daddy answers.

“Why?”

“Because it’s not fair for you to hear the story when Dean can’t.” Sam wants to argue, but Daddy talks before he can. “You hungry?”

Sam nods. He’s been hungry ever since they got here. “Yeah!”

“Okay.” Daddy gets up and puts on his coat. “I’m going to the store. You know the rules: put the chain on the door, wake Dean up if you see or hear anything strange, and don’t leave the room for _anything_.”

“I know,” says Sam. He doesn’t want Daddy to leave, but he’s trying to be brave like Dean always is.

“I won’t be long,” Daddy promises. He walks out the door and turns the key in the lock. Sam pushes a chair over to the door and climbs on it so he can put the chain on the door.

After the chair is back where it belongs, Sam sits on the end of Dean’s bed and watches him sleep. Dean’s face is bright red, like he’s been running outside in the cold, and he’s shivering even though he’s under all the covers. Sam pulls the heavy blanket off the other bed and drags it over to Dean. He tucks the blanket around Dean, who mumbles something in his sleep that Sam doesn’t think is really words. He sits cross-legged on the bed next to Dean, ready to help if Dean needs anything else.

*~*~*~*~*  
_January 16, 1990  
12:29 pm_

It’s only been twenty minutes, but Sam pounces on John like he’s been gone for days. He lets Sam cling to him for a few seconds, then lightly pushes him away. “You gonna let me in anytime soon?”

Sam grins and pulls away. “What’d you get?” he asks.

“Chicken soup for Dean and peanut butter and jelly for you,” he answers.

Sam’s face falls. “That’s it?”

John has to look away. “For now,” he replies. “If you’re good, I’ll get you McDonald’s tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay.”

John sets the grocery bag down on the dresser. “Clean up the table so I can use it,” he orders. Sam climbs on the chair and starts gathering the crayons and paper scraps. Once he’s done, John unpacks the groceries and makes three sandwiches, one for Sam and two for himself. Sam inhales the whole sandwich before John finishes the first half of his. He hands the second half to Sam, who takes it gratefully.

Dean coughs, loud and deep, and John turns to see him hunch forward and fight for breath. He crosses the room quickly and grasps Dean’s wrists, pulling his arms above his head. Dean coughs a few more times, then begins to settle. John lets go of his wrists and reaches for the glass of water on the night table. He notes the fine tremor in Dean’s hand when he takes it. Dean finishes the water and sinks back into the pillows, spent.

“I got some soup for you. Think you could eat some?” John asks.

Dean thinks about it for a long moment. “Not hungry,” he answers, his voice gravelly.

John sits down on the bed beside him and touches Dean’s cheek with the back of his hand. The fever burns unabated, the medicine seemingly unable to touch it. He sighs. “You must be feeling pretty bad.” Dean shrugs and clears his throat. “Besides the coughing, sneezing, headache, and sore throat, what else should I know?”

He’s surprised when Dean speaks up right away. “My ear hurts.”

“Which one?”

Dean points to his left ear. He’s always been prone to ear infections. The doctors had talked about putting tubes in his ears, but after--well, _after_\--there just wasn’t money or time. Dean’s taken so much amoxicillin that the doctors won’t give it to him anymore; now they prescribe him extra-strong antibiotics that cost $400 for a ten-day supply. John’s got two dollars and change and three maxed-out credit cards. He knows what he has to do. God help him, he knows. And it’s the last thing in the world he wants to do.

The hourly chime of his watch reminds him that it’s time for Dean’s next dose of Tylenol. He gives Dean three of the purple tablets instead of two, praying it’ll help. Something has to.

He gets Dean some juice and another wet washcloth. He strips the heavier blankets off the bed, leaving only the thin cotton blanket, which he folds down to Dean’s waist, and the sheet. If the fever doesn’t go down in the next two hours, he’ll have to try some more drastic measures. But for now, he’ll just watch. And wait.

*~*~*~*~*  
_January 16, 1990  
5:57 pm_

Sam triumphantly slaps down a “Wild Draw Four” on top of the pile of Uno cards. “I got you!” he giggles.

“Shhhh,” John hisses, but it’s too late. Dean opens his eyes and groans. John checks his watch. He might as well give Dean more ibuprofen while he’s awake. Dean squints against the light and turns on his right side, burying his head in the pillows.

“Uh-uh,” John says, grasping his shoulder. “It’s time for your pills. Sit up.”

“Too bright,” Dean murmurs, muffled by the thick cotton.

John moves the lamp from the bedside table to the dresser and turns off the overhead light. The dim glow provides just enough illumination for John to tell which bottle is which. “Okay, I turned the light off.” Dean slowly struggles to sit up. John helps him the last few inches. He hands Dean two pills and the half-full glass of orange juice. Dean seems to have an easier time taking the pills with juice, so that’s what John’s giving him. He picks up the thermometer, thankful for the backlit digital display. Dean obediently opens his mouth with no prompting. John smiles. “Good boy.”

He’s not smiling when he reads the display. 103.3. He takes a deep breath and tries to calm his racing heart. He desperately wants to get by without the hospital. If he can just get Dean through the next couple of hours, he can slip out and scrape up the cash for Dean’s antibiotics. He’ll take Dean to the free clinic first thing in the morning and everything will be all right.

He fills the ice bucket with lukewarm water and grabs the last of the clean cloths. He sets them on the now-cluttered night table and coaxes Dean to sit up. He pulls Dean’s white t-shirt off and pushes the covers to the end of the bed, then dips the cloth in the water and sweeps it over Dean’s forehead and cheeks. Dean mumbles something John can’t make out. He re-wets the cloth and wipes Dean’s neck and shoulders. Dean snuffles and sighs, eyes fluttering closed. “That’s it,” John whispers. “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

He feels the mattress dip and looks up. Sam crawls up next to him. “Can I help?”

John thinks it over. Dean’s safely asleep, and it’s not like Sam’s going to hurt him. He wrings the cloth out and hands it to Sam. “Be gentle.”

Sam’s face is the picture of fierce concentration as he swipes the cloth over his brother’s burning skin. He scrunches the cloth in his hand and wields it like a crayon, drawing circles on Dean’s cheeks and forehead. John takes the cloth from him and wets it again, then folds it in half and lays it across Sam’s outstretched hand. Sam takes the hint, pushing the cloth up Dean’s arm with the flat of his hand. They repeat the sequence a dozen more times. Sam sticks the tip of his tongue out as he works and John can’t hide the smile it brings to his face. As fucked up as this situation--this _life_\--is, they’ve got each other. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.


	2. The Best He Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prequel to "And Karma Laughed the Hardest." Why was Dean talking to elves in Syracuse?

_January 16, 1990  
9:09 pm_

“‘That cannot be helped now,’ said Gandalf. ‘Whether they are good or evil, or have nothing to do with us at all, we must go down at once. Not even on the knees of Caradhras will we wait for another night-fall!’ A cold wind flowed down behind them, as they turned their backs on the Redhorn Gate, and stumbled wearily down the slope. Caradhras had defeated them.”

Daddy closes the book and hands it to Sam. “Put this away.” Sam jumps off the bed and puts the book back in Dean’s backpack where it belongs. Daddy moves to the other bed and sits down beside Dean. “Sammy, come here a minute.”

“But you said I had to stay away from Dean ‘til he’s better,” says Sam, wondering why Daddy changed his mind.

Daddy glares at him. “Just get over here. _Now_.”

Sam does as he’s told. Dean tries to sit up more but his arms won’t stay straight, so he falls back on the pillows and coughs. Daddy puts his hand behind Dean’s back and helps him sit up all the way. Dean sniffles loudly, so Daddy hands him a tissue.

Daddy looks hard at them both, his forehead scrunched the way it always is when he’s about to say something real serious. He takes a deep breath. “Boys, I have to go out for a couple of hours.”

“Why?” asks Dean.

“It’s a grown-up thing, you wouldn’t understand,” Daddy answers. “I need you to listen to me and do exactly what I say.” He reaches over and picks up the alarm clock. “I’m setting this for 10:30. When it rings, you both need to get up. Dean, take your temperature and if it’s higher than 103, take a dose of Tylenol. Okay?” Dean nods. Daddy turns to Sam. “Sammy, if Dean has to take the Tylenol, I want you to do the thing with the washcloths and the cold water. Do that until the little hand on the clock is on the eleven. Then if Dean’s ear hurts you can give him the medicine from the bottle with the blue cap. Can you do that?”

Sam sits up straight and puts on a serious face like Daddy’s. “Yes, I can.”

Daddy smiles but his eyes don’t crinkle up like they do when he’s happy. “Good. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stands up. “Will you remember what I said?”

“Yes, sir,” they both answer at the same time.

Daddy nods. “Good.” He walks over to the door. “I love you. Be brave.” He shuts the door and Sam hears the lock click.

Dean yawns and then coughs for a real long time. Sam crawls to the edge of the bed and picks up the cup of juice from the table. He hands it to Dean when Dean finally stops coughing. Dean drinks a little bit and then makes a face when he swallows it. He hands the cup back to Sam and lays down on the big stack of pillows. “You be okay--” He coughs. “--if I go to sleep?”

Sam nods. “I can be in charge!” he says. Daddy always says Sam’s too little to be in charge. But if Dean doesn’t want to be in charge, why shouldn’t Sam get to?

“You should sleep. It’s past your bedtime,” Dean replies. He sneezes into the scrunched-up tissue and throws it in the trash can next to the bed.

Sam frowns. If they’re both asleep, what happens if someone bad tries to get them? He asks Dean what to do.

Dean slowly crawls out of bed and looks in Daddy’s bag. He pulls out the pistol Daddy keeps in the bottom. “See?” he says, getting back into bed. He puts the pistol in the drawer of the night table. “I’ll protect you, Sammy.” He coughs, sniffles, and gets under the covers.

Sam nods. “Okay.” He grabs a pillow and the light blanket off the other bed and curls up at the foot of Dean’s.

Next thing he knows, the alarm bell is ringing loudly. He looks to Dean to turn it off, but Dean looks at it like he doesn’t know what it is. Sam reaches over him and picks up the clock. He keeps messing with the buttons until the bell finally shuts off. Dean doesn’t move or look at Sam. He just keeps staring at the wall. Sam’s pretty sure that’s not good. “Dean?”

“‘M not goin’,” Dean mumbles.

“Goin’ where?”

“Don’ wanna go...in the snow.”

“We’re not,” Sam tells him.

“But Gandalf said...” Dean swallows. “Tha’ss the way to...the dwarf place.” He sits up, coughing hard into his sleeve. “No’ gonna go there, Elrond.”

Sam sits back. He has no idea what to do. Dean is dreaming, he thinks, but his eyes are open, and you can’t be asleep with your eyes open, so why is Dean talking to an elf from the book?

“Dean?” he says, his voice shaky like he’s bouncing on the bed even though he’s not. He waves a hand in front of Dean’s face. Dean doesn’t seem to see it.

“Wanna see Arwen. She’ pretty. Pretty elf.”

“Dean, stop it!” Sam feels hot tears in the corners of his eyes. He’s scared, something’s wrong with Dean and Daddy’s not here and Daddy won’t be here and what is he supposed to do? He doesn’t want to cry--Dean wouldn’t cry--but he can’t help it.

Dean reaches out and touches Sam’s hair. “Don’ cry, Pippin,” he says. “‘S okay.”

“No it’s not!” Sam pulls back. “Stop being weird, Dean. Please stop.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a few minutes. He lies back down and kicks off the blankets. “Hot in here.”

Sam suddenly remembers what Dad said about the washcloth thing. He jumps off the bed and grabs the ice bucket off the table. He goes in the bathroom and climbs on the toilet to reach the sink. Once the bucket’s filled with cold water, he takes a cloth from the basket on the sink and goes back out into the room. He very carefully puts the water on the table and gets back up on the bed. He dips the cloth in the water and rubs Dean’s face with it.

Dean looks confused. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Making you better,” Sam answers. He unbuttons the flannel pajama shirt Dean’s wearing and runs the cloth over Dean’s neck and chest. Dean shivers a little but doesn’t say anything.

Sam keeps wiping Dean with the wet cloth until Dean starts really shivering a lot. “Don’ do that anymore.”

Sam takes the water bucket back to the bathroom and puts the cloth over the side of the tub. When he comes back out, Dean is curled up on his side and crying. Sam runs over. “What’s wrong?”

“My ear hurts,” says Dean. “It hurts really really bad.”

Sam climbs on the bed and looks at the clock. The little hand is on the eleven now, so Sam reaches for the bottle with the blue cap. “Here,” he says, holding it out. “Daddy said to take these now.”

Dean slowly sits up. Sam crawls across the bed to get the glass of juice that’s on the far side of the table. He hands it to Dean. Dean pours out a handful of pills and swallows them with a big gulp of juice. Then he does it again. Sam frowns. “Are you sure you’re s’posed to do that?”

Dean’s eyes are shiny with tears. “It _hurts_, Sammy.”

“You called me Sammy!”

“‘Course I did. It’s your name.” Dean swallows more pills and hands the bottle to Sam.

“You didn’t before,” Sam informs him, looking in the bottle. The bottle is empty. Sam looks at Dean with wide eyes. “You took them all?”

“Works faster that way,” Dean replies, lying back down. He sneezes twice, then moans real loud and holds his ear.

Sam lies down on the bed facing Dean. A tear slips down onto Dean’s nose. Sam wipes it away with his thumb. Dean smiles, just a little, and pokes the tip of Sam’s nose. “Go to sleep, squirt.” Sam giggles and snuggles into the covers.

*~*~*~*~*  
_January 17, 1990  
1:46 am_

John pulls into the parking spot in front of the door to their room. The first place he went to was pretty dead, but he got $200 out of it. He had to hit a second, much scarier place to earn the rest, and he came too damn close to getting his head bashed in. _I’m so sorry, Mary_, he thinks, and walks to the motel room door.

As he’s putting the key in the lock, he hears a sound he can’t immediately identify. He freezes, leaning closer to listen. It takes about three seconds for him to realize it’s Sam crying. His heart jumps into his throat and he shoves the door open. The overpowering smell of vomit is the first thing that hits him. He looks immediately to the far bed. Dean’s curled up in a ball in the center of the bed and Sam’s sitting next to him, crying so hard he’s almost screaming. He fights down the panic gripping his chest and hurries over to the bed. “Sammy, what the hell happened?”

“I--don’t--know,” Sam chokes out between sobs.

Dean lets out a strangled groan. He’s drenched in sweat and whiter than the sheets. John kneels down to Dean’s eye level. “Dean, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“It hurts...so bad,” Dean gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.

“What hurts? Your stomach?” John stands up, running a hand through his hair. Something happened, he’s sure of it. He looks frantically around the room, his gaze finally settling on the bedside table. The bottle of ibuprofen is open. He picks it up and his stomach clenches when he realizes it’s empty. He looks inside, just to confirm, but he’s right. Dean took an entire bottle of ibuprofen. His chest tightens, stealing his breath, and for a shameful second he’s afraid he’s going to pass out. He pulls himself together with difficulty and stands up straight. “We’re going to the hospital,” he says, as much to himself as them. He picks Dean up as carefully as he can, but Dean cries out in pain and buries his head in John’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Dean, you’re gonna be okay.” He nods to Sam. “Come on. We’re leaving.” He waits for Sam to get up and follows him out the door.

He sits Dean down in the front seat so he can keep an eye on him. Dean groans and doubles over, squeezing his eyes shut. John closes the door as gently as he can and runs to the driver’s side. Dean cries out when John slams the door shut and John adds “intense headache and sensitivity to sound” to the mental list of symptoms he’s compiling for the doctors.

 The closest hospital is in the center of town and the drive seems to take forever. He drives as fast as he dares, spurred on by Dean’s agonized moans. Finally they arrive at the hospital and John grabs Dean and rushes to the emergency entrance. As soon as they step inside, the triage nurse catches sight of them and hurries over. “What happened?”

“He overdosed on ibuprofen,” John answers, unable to meet her eyes.

“How much did he take?”

“About thirty pills.”

“Regular adult strength?”

“Yeah.”

“How long ago?”

“I, uh...I don’t know,” he admits, feeling like the worst father ever.

“Follow me,” she says briskly. She leads them back to a curtained-off exam area and helps him get Dean settled on an exam bed. “I’ll be right back,” she tells him.

*~*~*~*~*  
_January 17, 1990  
2:13 am_

It _hurts._ There’s too much light here--wherever here is--and Dean’s about ready to claw his eyes out so he won’t have to deal with it. His head hurts so bad he can’t even see right. It’s like looking through a window covered in water, everything blurred and indistinct. He’d be scared about that, except he can’t think about anything besides the unrelenting pain in his head and stomach. Dad’s holding him down, keeping him from curling up in a little ball like he wants to, and he sort of hears Dad talking and sort of sees a nurse in front of him.

“Dean?” The nurse is talking to him, he guesses, but it’s hard to hear her because his ears are buzzing and feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. Not to mention that he barely recognizes his own name at this point, because that would require a level of concentration that’s almost beyond him.

“Dean, can you tell me where it hurts?”

“My stomach,” he says, hoping she heard him because he really can’t hear himself. “And my head.”

“Do you feel sick to your stomach?”

“A little.” More now that she mentioned it.

“Did you throw up?”

Yeah, he sort of remembers that. Feels like it was hours ago. “Yeah.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

He swallows hard. “My ears are buzzing,” he reluctantly admits. “And I can’t see right.”

She...does something. He’s not sure what, because he had to close his eyes. Trying to focus on her while she was moving made him feel even sicker. Something touches his good ear--a thermometer, probably. It goes away after a little bit and he’s just starting to relax when he feels her putting the air cuff around his arm. He feels a little pressure when it’s inflated, but the pain doesn’t register over the excruciating pain he has everywhere else. “I’m going to talk to the doctor now,” she says. “Just sit tight.” What does she think he’s gonna do? It hurts to _breathe_, let alone move.

The buzzing in his ears has gone away a little, and now he can make out Dad and Sammy talking. “I’m sorry,” Sam says in a tiny voice.

“Tell me exactly what happened,” Dad orders.

“Dean was crying ‘cause his ear hurt so bad,” replies Sam. “He didn’t want me to hear, but I did.” _Darn right I didn’t want you hear, _Dean thinks. _You’re the crybaby, not me_. “And I remembered you said he could have more medicine when the little hand was on the eleven. So I gave it to him.” Sam sniffles. “I wanted to help.”

“It’s not your fault, buddy,” says Dad. Dean opens his eyes just a crack and slowly turns to look at Dad, who’s kneeling on the floor and hugging Sam. “It’s mine,” he whispers.

Sam pulls back. “Is Dean gonna be okay?”

“Of course,” Dad says, a split second after Dean thinks it. “The doctors’ll fix him right up, you’ll see.”

He hears the curtain rustle and carefully looks up at the doctor who just walked in. “I’m Dr. Cross,” she says. She sounds like the vice-principal at his last school. “You’re Dean?”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, hating how weak his voice sounds.

“Okay, Dean, I’m going to check you over and then I can give you some medicine for the pain. Sound good?” He can’t nod, so he doesn’t answer.

Dr. Cross raises the bed so he’s sitting up, then takes a penlight out of the pocket of her lab coat and switches it on. Dean shrinks back and he hears a whimpering sound that he can’t believe came from him. He tries to swallow the scream when she shines it in his eyes, but he can’t. He hears Sam make a noise like a wounded animal and feels really bad about scaring his brother. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts,” the doctor says softly. She gives him a second to recover before shining the light up his nose and then in his ears. “When did your ear start hurting?” she asks after she looks in the left one.

Dean glances at Dad. _Please don’t be mad._ “Three days ago.”

“Is he on any antibiotics?” Dr. Cross asks over her shoulder. _ I’m right here. You could ask me._

“No,” Dad answers.

She doesn’t say anything to that. She turns back to Dean. “Open up and say ‘ahh’.” He does as she says, feeling like an idiot. She frowns when she looks at his throat. She steps back and puts on her stethoscope. “Sit forward for me,” she commands. She listens to his chest and back and he tries really hard not to cough. As soon as she’s done, he lets out all the coughs he was holding in. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he chokes out.

She looks skeptical, but just waits for him to stop. She lowers the bed so he’s laying down flat. She slides the hem of his shirt up and he flinches, knowing exactly what’s coming. She places her hands on his belly and presses down. He can’t stop himself from screaming this time. He’s never been stabbed (Dad has, he knows), but he imagines this is what it feels like. She does it again without warning and he still cries out, but he keeps his lips tightly closed to muffle the sound. He glances over at Dad and Sammy crying into Dad’s shoulder. She does it one last time and Dean blinks back tears of his own. “The nurse is going to come in to take some blood and then she’s going to give you some medicine.”

Dean sniffles. _Suck it up, you’re scaring the kid. _ “Okay.”

She smiles at him, then turns and nods to Dad. “The nurse will be right in,” she says before pulling the curtain closed.

Dad steps up to the bed and takes Dean’s hand. “You were really brave, kiddo. I’m proud of you.”

 Sam looks down at him with eyes that are red and puffy from crying. “I’m sorry I made you sick,” he says, lower lip quivering.

“_You_ didn’t, the pills did,” Dean points out. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows, but moving his head makes the pain explode behind his eyes and the room tilt on its axis. He can’t help groaning as he settles back down.

A different nurse comes in with a large tray of various supplies. She’s as tall as Dad and has long strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She smiles, all teeth. “Hi, Dean, I’m Laura. How are you doing?”

He takes a deep breath. “‘M okay.”

“Good. First thing--I need you to sit up.”

Dean pushes himself up on shaking arms. His head throbs with the movement, making him feel dizzy and sick. He swallows hard a few times and tries to stay perfectly still. Laura pats his leg and smiles sympathetically. “Good. Now, I’m going to tie this around your arm,” she says, showing him the rubber strip. “It’s gonna hurt a little, but I’ll try to be quick, okay?” She pulls it tight and Dean hardly even feels it. She swabs the inside of his elbow with alcohol and sticks the needle in before he has a chance to react. He’s never been scared of needles, though--not like Sammy, who cried through all his shots. She takes four vials of blood, then removes the rubber thing and places a gauze pad over the little hole

“You’re doing great, Dean. Now, I’m going to put an IV in your arm. Have you ever had an IV before?”

“No,” he answers softly. She hangs a bag of clear fluid on a pole behind him. Then she takes a bigger needle out of its packaging and holds it out in the palm of her hand. “There’s a really small tube inside this needle, you’ll just feel a little pinch when it goes in and then it won’t hurt at all.” She ties the rubber strap around his forearm and slides the needle into the back of his hand. This one he feels, but he only flinches a little bit. She removes the needle and tapes the tube to his hand, then connects a long tube to the bag of fluid and he feels a little rush of cold when the liquid starts flowing. She unties the rubber strap and smiles. “There, now the medicine is going straight into your bloodstream so it’ll work faster. You’ll start to feel better soon,” she promises.

After that, she picks up a large bottle and pours a gritty-looking black liquid into a large cup. She adds some clear syrup and mixes it up. _Oh crap. Please don’t tell me I have to _drink_ that. I’m already sick_. “This is called activated charcoal. It’s going to soak up all the extra medicine in your stomach so it won’t get into your blood and make you sicker. I know it looks pretty gross, but I put something in it to make it taste a little better. I need you to drink all of it. Can you do that for me?”

Dean looks up at Dad, who nods his head in encouragement. He swallows hard. “Yeah, I guess.”

She smiles. “Here’s a hint: the faster you drink it, the less you have to taste it.” She holds out the cup.

He takes it in one shaking hand. He’s pretty sure human beings aren’t meant to ingest charcoal. It’s a _rock_. He has to drink ground-up rocks. He feels his throat trying to close up and keep the rocks away. He can’t blame it, really. He stares at the cup for a long minute, then sighs and raises it to his lips. He takes a cautious sip. There’s a sweet taste, like soda, underneath the bitterness of the coal and it’s really thick and gritty, like a slushie gone horribly wrong. He forces it down as fast as he can without choking or puking. Once it’s all gone, he swallows convulsively a few times before he hands the empty cup to Laura. She smiles her toothy smile and pats his knee. “Way to go, Dean. You did great.” She takes off her latex gloves and throws them away. “You can lie down and rest awhile. The medicine might make you feel sleepy.”

He lies down gingerly, moving his head as little as possible, and takes the deepest breaths he can manage through his nose, praying for the crap to stay down. Dad leans against the edge of the bed and pats Dean’s leg with the hand that’s not holding Sam. “Just relax. The worst should be over now.”

“I hope so,” Dean replies. He makes an attempt to smile at Sam, who gives him a wobbly grin in return.

“Was the black stuff real yucky?” asks Sam.

_You just had to mention it, didn’t you_. “It wasn’t so bad,” he lies, looking right into Sam’s eyes so he’ll think it’s the truth.

Dr. Cross pulls the curtain open. “May I speak with you a minute, Mr. Page?”

Dad squeezes Dean’s knee. “I’ll be right back,” he says. He sits Sam down on the end of the bed. “Stay put.”

The curtain closes and Dean strains to hear what they’re saying. The doctor’s talking now but he only catches a couple words at a time: “Tests...sinus infection, walking pneumonia and a severe...when your son...200 milligram tablets...”

Then Dad starts talking, matching the doctor in volume but Dean’s pretty sure that won’t last. “Upstairs...radio on...were sleeping...they didn’t come...knew better...wrong, I guess.”

There’s a short pause before the doctor responds. “You realize...report...an investigation?”

_Oh no. No no no no. Please God, don’t let them take Dad away. It’s not his fault._ Sam’s eyes widen and Dean suddenly realizes he must have said that out loud. “They’re gonna take Daddy away?” Sam asks, lower lip quivering like he’s going to cry again.

Dean tries to take a deep breath but finds that he can’t. He feels dizzy and strange, like he just got off a merry-go-round that was going really fast. His stomach twists and the next thing he knows, he’s spewed the black stuff everywhere. It’s all over his legs, Sam’s clothes, the end of the bed, the floor and even the curtain. Sam screams and the curtain screeches aside. Dad rushes in and grabs Sam, who bursts into tears. He gingerly sets Sam down on the floor, taking care not to get any of the mess on his own clothes. The doctor comes in after him. “Oh, my,” she says, surveying the damage. She grabs the clipboard from the tray and writes something on it. “I’ll go get the nurse,” she promises, then leaves.

“”M sorry,” mumbles Dean, curling up on his side miserably. The room is still spinning like a carnival ride and Sam’s loud sobbing is like icepicks stabbing into his brain. Dad steps closer and starts rubbing Dean’s back. “Make Sammy shut up,” he begs Dad with as much force as he can muster.

Dad turns around. “Sam, be quiet!” he snaps in his drill-sergeant voice. Sam lowers the volume but continues to cry, soft snuffling sounds and gasps replacing the harsh wails. Dad turns back to Dean and brushes Dean’s sweaty hair back from his eyes. “What are we gonna do with you, kiddo?” he says, sighing. He doesn’t sound mad though, more like...sad. Because Dean’s sick? Or because the social workers are going to take Dean and Sam away from him? Dean’s throat gets real tight and he realizes he’s going to puke again. Dad must be able to tell, because he steps back and pulls Sam away from the bed. Dean leans as far over the side of the bed as he can manage, but it doesn’t matter because he just ends up dry heaving for what seems like forever. When he finally stops retching, he collapses back on the bed and groans.

The smiley nurse, Laura, comes in then carrying a couple of hospital gowns. She smiles at Dean, then Dad and Sam. “Okay, let’s get you guys cleaned up,” she says cheerfully. She hands a little blue gown with trucks on it to Dad and gives the bigger gown to Dean. “I’m going to disconnect the IV for a minute so it doesn’t get pulled out accidentally,” she tells him. She puts a little plastic clamp on the real long tube and pulls it away from the little tube in his hand. Then she hands latex gloves to Dad and says, “I’ll step out for a bit so these two can get changed.”

Once she’s gone, Dad strips Sam’s soiled clothes and shoes off and puts the hospital gown on him. Then he does the same for Dean, only it takes longer because Dean’s sitting down. Dad pokes his head through the curtain to get Laura and when she pulls the curtain back, there’s a wheelchair sitting there. She nods at Dad and he picks Dean up and sits him down in the chair. Behind them, Sam pipes up. “Can I ride in the wheelie chair too?”

“That okay with you, Dean?” Laura asks.

Dean scoots over to the side of the chair. “Sure,” he says, his voice weak and scratchy from throwing up.

Dad puts Sam down next to Dean. Laura smiles. “All set?”

“Yeah.” Dean closes his eyes so he won’t get sick while they’re moving. It’s not a long ride to the new cubicle, for which Dean is grateful. He keeps his eyes closed while Dad hoists him onto the new, clean bed. When he opens them, Laura is beside him, hooking the IV back up. She picks up a syringe and injects something into the IV bag. “What’s that?”

“It’s called Phenergan. It’ll settle your stomach so you’ll stop vomiting.”

Dean sighs with relief and sinks back into the bed. Laura smiles at him and pats his leg. “I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”

*~*~*~*~*  
_January 17, 1990  
3:32 am_

John breathes a sigh of relief when Dean finally surrenders to the medicine’s effects and falls asleep. It’s hard to see Dean so miserable, especially when there’s nothing John can do. Dean hardly even complained when he was forced to take the activated charcoal again, even though it must have been awful for him. At least after that he seemed to start feeling a little better; the lines of pain in his forehead and around his eyes smoothed out and he stopped doubling up and clutching his stomach.

About an hour later, the curtain swishes aside to reveal the doctor. She glances at the two sleeping boys and steps inside the cubicle. “The results of the liver function tests came back,” she says quietly.

John stands up from the stool they finally brought in for him. “And?”

“The values are definitely outside normal range, but not too bad given the situation,” she replies. “There shouldn’t be any lasting damage.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “So what now?”

“We’ll continue to monitor him until the ibuprofen is completely out of his system.” She sets the clipboard down on the table. “We’ll give him anti-emetics and pain medication as needed, but the worst is over.” For the first time that night, she smiles. It’s just a brief flicker, but it’s enough.

“When can he go home?”

“Not for at least 24 hours,” she answers. “In fact, he’s just about to be moved to a bed upstairs.”

As if on cue, Laura appears with a wheelchair. John gathers Sam up in his arms while she wakes Dean and helps him into the chair. They take the elevator to the sixth floor. When the door opens, it’s easy to tell they’re entering the pediatric ward, as the walls are brightly colored and decorated with life-size paintings of jungle animals.

When they enter the room, John is incredibly grateful to see a cot set up next to the bed and an overstuffed easy chair in the corner. He sets Sam down on the chair and Sam curls right up without waking. Laura situates the IV pole behind the bed and gets Dean settled under the covers. Dean’s barely awake anyway, so it’s no surprise that he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. She checks Dean’s vitals and writes them on the chart, then turns to John and nods. “There’s a call button attached to the bed if Dean needs anything. There’s water on the table, and breakfast comes around 8:00.”

“Thank you,” he says. “For everything.”

She smiles, big and bright. “He’s a real trooper, I’ll say that.”

“He certainly is,” replies John, smiling back.


End file.
